


Taking Turns

by zarabithia



Category: DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Domesticity, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: They take turns cooking, on the few days that they have off.





	Taking Turns

Sunday is Clark’s day to make breakfast. That’s a pure accident; had their calendar gone smoothly, Friday would have been Clark’s turn and Sunday would have been up to Bruce yet again.

Which, of course, would have meant ridiculously expensive bagels and organic fruit, whose prices are probably appropriate for a princess but never failed to make Clark furious.

But Luthor had interfered, as was his usual habit, during the middle of a lunch date with Ma on Thursday, a particularly furious woman with spots had interfered on Friday morning, and a whole gang of criminals had interfered on Friday evening; the latter had lasted well into Saturday evening. Barry Allen had been quite pleased to learn that there is, apparently, some honor among some thieves.

Bruce disagrees, but he usually does.

In any event, the criminals of the world have pushed their schedules back further than the breakfast calendar had previously allowed for, and Sunday is Clark’s day to make breakfast.

He plans on French toast. Bruce claims to hate Alfred’s French toast and “Nobody can make it better than Alfred,” but although Clark would never say anything bad about Alfred, he will say that Ma is a better cook. Nobody is a better cook than Ma, and that isn’t malice; it’s just fact.

The plans go well at first. He reluctantly untangles himself from Diana and Bruce’s arms to journey to Diana’s lavish kitchen and begins to prepare the recipe as his mother taught him.

“Your grandmother gave it to me, and her mother to her,” Ma had told him, at age six after an unfortunate incident at school that Clark still doesn’t like to think about, one that had definitely required comfort food after being driven back to the farm. “And now I will give it to you, as long as you promise to treat the recipe right. No burning Grandma’s French toast. Don’t be getting your strawberries from a supermarket, either.”

And Clark does his best to uphold those promises. His milk, eggs, and strawberries are not certified organic, but they all come from small farmers he knows by name, even though he doesn’t call New Jersey home. The bread isn’t organic either, but the lady who runs the bakery two blocks from the Planet is almost as kind as Ma, if a bit more brash in the way that New Yorkers tend to be.

The toast is golden brown and delicious when he flips them in his grandmother’s cast iron skillet. 

But when six-year-old Clark had made those promises to his mother, he hadn’t understood the power of a deep gravelly voice calling him back to the bedroom from the kitchen with the lofty kind of command that being a Wayne had bestowed upon him as a birthright. He certainly hadn’t contemplated the draw of two small hands almost as powerful as his own lifting him over her shoulder and carrying him back to the bedroom when he did not return fast enough for her royal liking.

Six-year-old Clark could never have fathomed being the center of attention of two people who reminded him that he was not alone and would never be alone with every breath, kiss, and caress.

So he does in fact burn the french toast… but the ingredients are still right.


End file.
